Gut Nacht, Goldstern:･ﾟ :･ﾟ
by zfic
Summary: Tangled Space AU
1. Well it's all right

enjoy!

* * *

God, did he love his boots.

There weren't many things in this world Flynn did love, not many at all. There weren't many things in the next world he loved, either. Or the next, or the next, or the next.

And _really_ , saying he 'loved' those things was a bit…much.

More often than not, what caught his attention for long enough to hold it was something he wanted, borrowed (stole), then quickly lost interest in.

Once the larceny cycle was complete, he'd sell them on with the deepest, most _sincere,_ wishes that they'd find their way back to their original owners.

A rare crystal pitcher of fine Earth wine sold to a Hrul system oil mogul he was sure he never wanted to cross paths with again.

The antique cellular communicator with a bobble headed white horse still hanging from the port (he didn't much care for animals and the horse was menacing at _best_ ) went to the creepy rich kid down past Garriko.

A shit-ton of duck quills were scattered between a shit-ton of lecherous Lopol monks.

The gold coin he found on Arendelle…well, he certainly got rid of that, too.

 _Anyway._

Point was, attachments (especially the _people_ kind), were a _no-go_. The kind of no-go that made diving into Kileia's bajillion degree lava pits sound like a fun day at the beach _._

So, _incredibly_ , the boots were the one attachment in his life that he kept out of soppy, sentimental, choice. Even his crappy ship, _The Boxlighter_ , would've hit the scrap-planet years ago if it weren't for, y'know, space being what it was and money being exactly what he didn't seem to have.

 _Beep, beep, beep–_

"Flynn Rider, totally _not_ the dashing thief I'm sure you've heard so much about," He answered charmingly, still admiring his worn leather boots beneath the panel of clunky buttons and blinking lights, "How did you get on this channel and why haven't you hung up yet?"

"Prick." Came the gruff reply.

"Ah! Stabbington-point-one, Mr Talker, how the hell are you? Stabbington-point-two, you there? I'm sure the pink eye's doing _spectacularly_ , no?" Met with only silence, Flynn grinned to himself, "I'll take that as an excited agreement. Now, what can do for you, fine gentlemen?"

"You got everything ready?" God, the line was bad. He'd have to see what he could do about that. How could anyone hear how handsome he was if the line made him sound like he swallowed Darth-fucking-Vader.

" _Yup_." He dragged out the word, popping the 'p' at the end, "You boys have your extra scary faces on?"

"Fuck, you're annoying. Five minutes." The line went dead.

"Five minutes." Flynn grumbled, flipping switches and slipping his hands in the handles of his controls: Lefty and Mrs Dalloway. He didn't know why, when he got the ship those names were carved into the grimy metal. "As if I haven't been waiting for your lazy asses to get here for the last," he glanced at the digital display above him, "fuckin' _hour_ , jesus."

Usually, he wouldn't be so wound up about the intricacies of a job like this. Get in, get the shit, get out, _hide_. Simple.

But staring down at Corona from just outside its tracking range for the past sixty minutes, following the swirling organic glow of greens and blues and the glitter of the legendary Golden City shimmering through the sparse clouds, he felt the tug of a home he didn't possess the right to have.

And honestly?

It felt like shit.

To wired to sleep, and too lazy to read, he admired his boots instead. Because deep feelings, of any sort, was The Worst.

" _Well it's all right, ridin' around in the breeze."_ He sang to himself as he boosted his engines and zipped straight down to the planet _._

Flynn docked on the outskirts of the city, for just long enough to pick up the waiting Stabbingtons and head to the unused underpass they discovered in ancient manuscripts and blueprints of the city.

 _Well it's all right, if you live the life you please._

Underground, Stabbington-numero-uno detonated a small explosive right beneath their target, blowing a hole the size of a dinner plate in the hilariously thin foundations of the Citadel.

You'd think one of the richest familes in the whole fucking _quadrant_ could afford better security, no?

It wasn't like he was _complaining,_ exactly, but, like, invaluable relics shitty security.

As rubble fell upon their heads, Flynn started to prime his bot, Humphrey Bogart(no relation). The spherical little robot, with pincers twice the length of Flynn's own arms, rattled to life.

"Nice, you good men go to the meet point. Remember, turn _left_." Flynn said with a charming smile, taking Humphrey's controller out from the inside of his leather jacket and switching it on. When he let go of the old Mr. Bogart, the robot floated in mid-air for a few seconds, clicking and whirring, before taking off through the hole.

The Stabbingtons eyed him.

Flynn sighed dramatically, clutching his heart, "What? After we've been through together, you don't _trust_ me?"

If anything, their glare intensified.

" _Listen_ ," he dragged out the word, "we have three minutes to get my bot in and out. You two blocks or meat need to go, like, _now_ to ram straight through any, y'know, bloodthirsty guards with electric laser spears?"

Stabbington The First tapped his brother on the chest with the back of his hand, and Stabbington The Second nodded, jogging off with one last stink eye at Flynn.

 _Well it's all right, doing the best you can._

The remaining Stabbington, Flynn didn't know what the hell his name was, turned on Flynn and poked him in the chest, "You run, you die."

Their eyes stayed fixed for a moment, and then he followed in his brother's stead.

"Ouch." Flynn said monotonously to the empty tunnel.

Humphrey Bogart's controller lit up. Flynn had pre-programmed it to find and retrieve the target by itself. He had uploaded images and schematics to its hard drive the night before to ensure Humphrey Bogart knew _exactly_ where it was going and what it needed to get. No time to waste.

Flynn tapped at the controller display, cursed when Bogart hit a wall (hey, he said he programmed it, he didn't say he programmed it _well_ ), and before he knew it, the target and Humphrey Bogart were both safe and sound in his pilfering hands.

"Now," he said, switching Mr. Bogart off and slipping it and the target into his satchel, "I go right."

 _Well it's all right, as long as you lend a hand._


	2. Dumb luck runs out at some point

"My secret? Oh!" Mama Gothel laughs, a hand poised modestly on her chest. She smiles secretively and brushes the tips of her fingers against her customer's shoulder, a fair Kilunian lady dressed in the finest silk, looking for a particularly strong conconction to share with her wife on their wedding anniversary, "Motherhood, dear. My secret is motherhood."

* * *

"Rapunzel!" She calls, pausing at the base of the staircase leading up to her daughter's room. When she hears no movement from above, no gasp, no startled shuffling, she smiles, knowing Rapunzel is fast asleep. Mama Gothel turns and strides to her office. She'll admit, she's disappointed the girl is asleep, fresh blood is by far more potent than stored, but it seems for tonight, she will have to make do.

Mama Gothel gently closes the door behind her and takes her seat at her desk. Firing up her computer, she pulls open her drawer and slides a vile of the phosphorescent blood from the glass rack.

She has only time to sip once when the call comes through.

The thief's face stretches onto her transluscent screen, "Ma'am."

"Mr. Stabbington," she arches her eyebrow suggestively, "I trust you're on your way?"

"That's the thing..." He mumbles, shaking his head, "I don't know how he did it."

"I beg you pardon, Mr. Stabbington," Mama Gothel narrows her eyes and sits up straighter, "You don't know how who did what, exactly?"

Stabbington swallows, "We got this guy on the job. Slippery sort, but he works quickly." He stops and clears his throat, seemingly searching his pockets for a way to tell her his bad news.

"Do not test my patience, you ape."

His words come out in a rush, "He ran, ma'am."

"He ran."

"With the item."

"With...the item."

"...Ma'am?"

Mama Gothel clutches the vial in her hand so tight it shatters, the thin glass cuts into her skin and the bloods flows freely down her porcelain white arm. She presses her bloodied palm to her forehead and glares at the Stabbington through her fingers, clenching her teeth around her words, "Get. Here. Now."

* * *

Rapunzel snickers behind her hand.

She launches herself off her perch at the top of her wardrobe, she closes her eyes and grins.

Threads of light shoot from her body; from the roots of her hair, the tips of her fingers, the soles of her feet. The light thrums in her chest, alive and magical and hers. Before she hits the floor, the strands catch her, spinning her into a cocoon and holding her inches from the marble tile.

Giggling, she stays there, hanging upside down and inspecting her room from this unfamiliar, though not entirely new, perspective.

Rapunzel frowns.

Was there always that space there?

Behind her vanity, above the lily-white skirting-board.

A bubble of excitement rises up within her, making her fit to burst. She scrambles out of her woven light and rushes as silently as her feet will let her to the box beneath her window. She throws open her curtains, letting the glow of the Hun nebula fill her room, (if she lit a poly-candle, her mother would know and tell her off for staying up late and she'd cry and she hates crying in front of mother, so best avoid the whole confrontation and open the curtains instead), and rummages around.

Purple, orange, pink and... aha! No yellow!

Rapunzel snickers again, the perfect plan forming in her head.

She looks back up out the window, sighing. In two days, in exactly two days, the Hun nebula will be illuminated with thousands and thousands of golden orbs. Sparkling golden orbs beating in time to the boom-boom-badoom-boom locked in her chest. They call to her, each and every one.

She takes a deep breath in, through her nose, stretching her lungs.

They are not stars.

And she has to see them.

Now, all Rapunzel has to do is figure out how to leave home and zip to Corona without her mother ever, ever finding out.

Easy.

* * *

God, that was way too fucking easy.

Flynn smirks down at the satchel by his feet. Sasquatch A and B mentioned a client at their heist meeting last month who was willing to pay a ridiculous amount cash, up-front, on delivery of the item. He was way too slammed that evening to plan out the intricate details of how he'd snatch the shit off them and be on his merry way, especially with the curvy bar-maid giving him the eye just across the tavern, but for sure by ten the next morning, he had it all laid out.

He was such a genius.

Because dropping those two dead-weights would mean he wouldn't have to split it three ways. Not splitting three ways meant he'd get the whole, dirty 3,000,000,000 credits. And 3,000,000,000 credits meant motherfuckin' bucks.

Grinning like he just won the lottery, because holy shit, he fucking did, Flynn zips out of the system, discreetly scanning for any pursuers. He holds his breath, fixes his eyes on his monitor, and readies his thumbs over his arming switches. There is a long moment of pause as he hurtles through space, picking up as much speed as the Boxlighter will afford him. The thing that's been rattling for seven months now rattles behind him again but he ignores it. Just get as far away as poss-

Rider, stop resisting, we have you surrounded.

Three guard-ships come up on his right, four on his left, the speedy kind, and about a dozen behind him. Angry red beeps on his monitor, and even angrier red faces out his window.

Flynn has to admit, the thrill of the chase was 75% of the fun.

He gets shot at and his shields scream robotic expletives at him.

Okay, 60% of the fun.

Final warning .

He frowns and opens his comms, "Hey, no fair, I didn't get a first warning! I wanna report a case of incompetence."

Rider. Now.

He banks a hard right, cursing when the Boxlighter's boosters judder and throws him slightly off course. Flynn rights it in time to blast two clean lasers at two guard-ships, knocking them into two more. He whirls left and shoots out again, keeping his blasts to a minimum (laser crystals are expensive as fuck and he has a moon to buy, so...)

Dodging three, check that, four guard-ships has him whooping triumphantly, their bulks narrowly avoiding each other behind him. But he can't keep dodging and weaving, for very long, his ship won't have it. The controls have already started shaking in his fists, the knocking in the back sounds like literal death and he's pretty sure his central booster is just fucking gone.

Flynn shrugs.

He's been in worse, he supposes.

Something small and white bleeps onto the corner of his monitor and he smirks, hitting his speed dampeners and spiralling his ship upwards, climbing high above the confused guard-ships before immediately ducking between them, heading straight down to the small green planet he can't believe he didn't notice until now.

He flips off the pilots as he shoots past them, laughing like a maniac. A brilliant, brilliant, drop-dead gorgeous maniac.

A maniac that inconveniently forgot about the giant blazing atmosphere.

Flynn's ship catches alight and he hurtles to the ground.


End file.
